


Move Along, Nothing To See Here

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, M, based on S3 spoiler pics, romance, PWP<br/>Not mine, producing only joy, not income.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Common Uniform

"I'll be right here at home, drinking a beer, if you need me." The small, dark haired woman gives Red and Liz a sardonic grin. "Call if you think of any more questions. But call early."

Red responds with a little dip of his head, and the woman steps back from the car window and straightens, then gives them a lazy little salute.

"Drive, Lizzie," he advises his companion.

Liz backs the squad car down the woman's long, overgrown driveway and out into the street, then heads back into town.

She and Red are dressed in real police uniforms belonging to the woman and her sergeant. 

And they have a twelve hour shift in which to locate one of Red's contacts, recently gone to ground at a most inconvenient time. Hopefully one shift will be sufficient.

Ahead of them, the light changes yellow, then red. As Liz slows, a brown car ahead of them charges ahead through the intersection, narrowly missing a delivery truck that has just begun to edge out from the intersecting boulevard.

"Hang on."

Liz flips switches and the sirens begin to wail, their emergency lights pulsing in flashes of electric blue and white.

"Lizzie, what in the world?"

Red turns to stare at her in disbelief as she maneuvers among the cars that are pulling slowly out of her way, then takes off after the brown car.

"Real officers wouldn't ignore that," she responds, her eyes on the car ahead, who is finally pulling to the side and slowing to a stop. "I've always wanted to be the one writing the ticket."

Liz grins at him, then hops out of the car with the leather folder containing her ticket book. Red sighs and watches her carefully as she approaches the brown car. She is correct that the easiest way to get caught would be to behave uncharacteristically. But nobody really looks at the face of a man or woman in uniform.

Everyone just looks at the uniform.

And he has to admit that Liz looks good in hers.

Tightly fitted to her small frame, it accentuates her erect shoulders and the proud set of her head, almost swallowed beneath her uniform hat.

He himself feels hot and a little uncomfortable in his own uniform, the bullet proof vest heavy beneath his blue shirt, but he has to admit he looks younger and very ordinary.

Just another middle-aged cop earning some overtime.

Liz comes back to the car and slides in with a disgruntled sniff, shutting off the lights.

"Just a kid who was late to work."

Red lets his eyes slant to the laptop on the bench seat between them.

"You didn't even run him for warrants?" he asks skeptically, as the brown car pulls slowly forward, then back out into traffic.

She shakes her head slowly.

"No. I just gave him a verbal warning."

Red eyes her curiously as they begin driving again. That doesn't seem at all like her. And she's very silent now, no longer quite so cheerful.

This disguise is excellent for several reasons; it allows them to move freely about the city, without fear of being recognized, it allows them to be armed, with the corresponding authority of the uniform as an edge in any confrontation, and lastly, he believes that wearing the same uniform may draw him and Liz closer together.

She needs to remember that she's now on his team. No longer a member of the FBI.

It may seem ironic, even to him, that pretending to be police officers together will help remind Liz that she's a criminal now, but he knows the power of a common uniform all too well. They counted on it in the Navy.

The message will be reinforced when she looks at his stripes, and when they spend time in the public eye, where they will automatically be classed together as law enforcement, beware, and most especially in any dangerous situation they encounter in their search.

He's always been on her team, no matter what she might think. He adores her with a passion he knows to be unhealthy, rooted in the long years he watched over her from afar, inflamed by their growing closeness as he edged delicately closer, then away, from her and from the FBI. Testing, but not fully trusting.

When he told her she must never risk her life for him again, her refusal to assent terrified him. It was not until the following morning, lying sleepless in his cold, lonely bed, that he acknowledged the truth. He had wanted to die, there on his knees, her name on his lips. To finally end this helpless longing, this quixotic quest.

But that doesn't serve her. And he lives to serve.

Red rubs the already shiny badge on his chest with his shirtsleeve. Comrades in arms. For the next twelve hours, at least, he can pretend that she belongs to him. And always will.


	2. In Pursuit

Liz finds the way Red keeps chewing on breath mints faintly amusing at first. She's never spent so many hours in his company, though, and he talks almost continuously. They cruise the busy streets, direct traffic away from the parade that occasioned this overtime, and manage to clear several of the key contacts of their target.

His old girlfriend has a new man. His mother is in Florida for two weeks.

They focus on his older sister. It's late afternoon by the time they circle her block once again to find her car finally absent. She's been called in to work at the convenience store. This is their chance.

"You go on and search, Lizzie," Red directs her, in what she's coming to think of his 'sergeant' voice. "I'll stay at the door, in case the neighbors become interested." 

He's affecting a flat local accent, and as she parks outside the house he gives his hat a little tug to further shade his eyes, already concealed by an expensive pair of sunglasses she's never seen him wearing before. His breath is heavy with peppermint despite the deli subs they ate for lunch in the cruiser, watching a blocked off-street near the parade route and sharing a bag of spicy chips.

Liz looks at Red, the heavy curve of his jaw, his big shoulders straining against the uniform shirt. He's hot, but he still smells clean, and he's been so careful about his breath. Does he feel uncomfortable around her, dressed almost like equals, his rank the only difference between them? There's something about that nudging at the edge of her conscious mind. Something about how approachable he seems, almost ordinary.

"Get going, Lizzie," Red urges her, opening the front passenger seat door. She suddenly becomes aware that he's been careful not to touch her all day, despite their proximity in the car. What is he thinking, what is he feeling?

Liz picks the front door lock in less than a minute, starts rummaging through the notebooks and various scraps of paper near the password protected computer. She soon finds it, a folded page with all the woman's accounts and passwords carefully notated.

She needs to check recent emails, and online phone bills, for some clue as to their target's whereabouts.

Mr. Kaplan will do the rest.

"Hello? Is anybody here?"

A quavering, unfamiliar voice, but resolute. A woman, most probably elderly.

Liz redoubles her efforts on the computer as Red responds smoothly from his position by the door, out of her line of sight.

"Ma'am? I'll have to ask you not to enter these premises. We're responding to a call, and the perpetrator may still be here. We found this door unlocked."

"Oh, that's terrible, officer."

Nothing further. Liz finally extracts sufficient information, and emails it all to Mr. Kaplan. Then she triggers a wipe of the hard drive, using software from the USB drive in her pocket.

"Ok, Red, let's go."

He holds the door for her, ushers her out into the yard.

"All secure," he calls out to the three white-haired neighbors gathered on the street. "We'll be back later this evening to take a statement from the homeowner."

"I think she rents," drifts back to them, before the neighbors disperse as Liz drives away, back towards the parade.

She's getting tired. At some point, she will need to let Red drive.

She's never seen him drive. Liz cards through her memories for a moment, to be sure. There are any number of things she's never seen Red do. Why does the thought of watching him behind the wheel of a police cruiser make her want to fake a yawn and pull over immediately?


	3. The Park, At Night

The night is overcast, threatening but not delivering rain. Henderson Park appears deserted as they cruise around the winding streets, until Red finally pulls into a parking space at the far end of a small lot overlooking a field flanked by a play structure and a cement block restroom, a single bulb flickering above the metal door. He shuts off the car and leans back in his seat with a little grunt before reaching for his coffee.

Liz is already sipping from her own large paper cup.

"What are we looking for here?" she asked, scanning the darkened fields. 

"Well, there could be drug dealers," Red responded, gesturing with his cup. "But perhaps our presence is deterring them from dealing tonight."

Liz shrugs, then leans forward in her seat.

"Wait, I actually see someone."

They both watch as a small figure, obviously female, appears from the trees flanking the field and crosses to the structure, then seats herself on a low swing. 

"It's not safe for her to be out here alone," Liz says in a low voice.

"Watch," advises Red.

Within minutes, a second figure appears, and she runs to him. They embrace passionately, then walk together towards the woods, arms around each other's waists. As they pass beneath the restroom light, Liz lets out a gasp.

"Red, they're so young!"

He glances over at her in the darkness, feeling his mouth turn down and hoping she hasn't seen his flinch.

"Young love, Lizzie. Haven't you ever felt that way?"

"No," she responds unexpectedly, sipping her coffee as she stares straight ahead. "You?"

A very personal question, if he answers it in any detail. Red has to think that's promising. He's told her so many stories from his past today, in their hours of driving and idling.

"Yes, I've been in love more than once. It's the most wonderful, and most terrible, of human experiences." 

"For me, there was only Tom." She's still not looking at him, but he can tell she's not looking at the field either, but deep into her memory. "Oh, I experimented a little in college, but he was the only one I let myself love."

He can hear something in her voice, some residual warmth beneath the bitterness, so he checks his initial impulse, and instead speaks gently.

"Was it good between you, Lizzie?"

She gives a rueful little laugh.

"No, actually it was never quite right. I never felt as if I measured up to his standards."

She's clutching her cup now, and Red can tell she's debating whether or not to say something else. He makes an encouraging little noise.

"And he was pretty selfish, too. Not really interested in what I wanted, or needed."

He can't believe she's speaking so openly to him. But who does she have to talk with, any longer?

"You deserve only the best, Lizzie," he tells her, shaking his head and deliberately not looking over at her as he senses her stealing a glance at his profile. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now, and she's so much younger, with perfect vision.

"Yeah, right."

That self-loathing, near kin to his own. The lump in his throat intensifies. He never wanted this for her, to be lonely and despairing, doubting her own worth.

Red reaches over and lays his hand on her thigh, just above her knee.

"You do realize I'm quite experienced in these matters?" he tells her, giving her his best, most wicked grin. "Just say the word, and I'll be happy to give you a very generous sample of what you should expect from a man."

She turns her head quickly towards him, and he holds his hand still on the warm curve of her thigh with an effort, expecting a slap, or laughter, or an expression of shock at his temerity. Even anger would be welcome. Anything is better than that bleak, resigned tone.

At least he managed to cut off the final words. He almost said, 'a man who loves you.'

Liz lets out just one breath, then lays a corresponding hand on his thigh. Much higher up, so that her fingertips stop what feels like a bare inch from the uncomfortably snug crotch of his borrowed trousers.

Red looks down, unable to believe this is happening. Her fingers move, sliding a little further to rub his inner thigh, then trace his inseam with her nails.

"You will?" Her voice is soft, and she's looking down at her hand.

The bulletproof vest and scratchy uniform shirt, to which he thought he had become accustomed, have suddenly become far too tight. Is she just teasing? Calling his bluff?

"Of course, Lizzie. Anything you want or need."

His words emerge soft, sad instead of playful. 

The truth. His truth.

"Where?"

She leans towards him, tilting her head, and he suddenly realizes she's angling her hat brim up, leaning in for a kiss. He turns his head the other way and moves toward her, afraid that he's misreading her signals, but unable to do anything else. Not with the feel of her nails on him, her eyes falling closed as her lips part.


	4. Where

He kisses with restraint, but evident enthusiasm, one hand warm on her thigh, the other cupping her face. 

Red. She's kissing Red.

In between slow, delicious kisses, he makes deep little rumbling sounds, so encouraging. So heartening.

As they continue, Liz feels herself losing track of the sensation of sitting in the car, the night outside, the weight and heat of the itchy, uncomfortable uniform. And yet her focus is narrow and precise, too, the coffee taste of Red's soft mouth, his kisses doing lovely things to her nerves, the feel of his unfamiliar teeth against her questing tongue.

And the daring sensation of her hand sliding cautiously up his thigh to explore the unmistakable evidence of his arousal, despite the way he's so deliberately not clutching at her in return.

She wants more. So much more.

"Where?" she asks him again, breaking their deep kiss with an effort.

He looks around, as if surprised to find they are sitting in the front seat of a police car. Still wearing their seat belts, in fact.

"A safe house, Lizzie?" he answers, his eyes searching her face in the darkness. A question, rather than an answer.

"Do you have one handy?" she answers at once, not surprised, exactly, since he never tells her everything, but not expecting such a simple solution.

She does not want to join the teenagers in the forest.

Red leans forward and kisses her one more time, both hands coming to her face. Not holding her, pulling at her, but just brushing her face with first his knuckles, then the pads of his thumbs. As if he's worshiping her skin.

Then he pulls back and starts the car.

"Five minutes, Lizzie."

His voice is beyond deep. She leaves her hand on his thigh as he drives, watching his face twitch whenever she allows her nails to roam over him through the tight polyester fabric of his uniform pants.

Red keeps both hands on the wheel.

It's little more than the promised five minutes when they pull into a rutted alley, dark with overhanging branches and ivy covered fences. The row of garages appear to be invisible from the street, and no security lights come on as they bump slowly to a stop in front of one double garage door, its cracking paint evidence of a lack of recent maintenance.

Red hops out and punches a code into the heavy lock on the door, then swings it open to reveal a dark, empty space.

The silence once he pulls the car into the space and shuts off the engine is profound. It rattles her nerves. Her mouth is already dry with a mix of excitement and fear.

Is she really going to do this?

Red climbs out from behind the wheel and goes at once to close and lock the door behind them, then flips on a wall switch and moves to the door at the back wall, punching in another code on the door lock. She watches him move, his gestures economical rather than graceful, his heavy belt and tight, borrowed uniform emphasizing the solid curves of his body usually concealed beneath his suits.

She needs to get out of the car.

Is she really sure? He hasn't looked at her once since they arrived.

Liz allows Red to usher her up a flight of narrow stairs carpeted in utilitarian gray wool, to emerge into a surprisingly modern studio apartment.

There's a huge, king size bed, neatly made up with a heavy silver cover that shines like silk. Beyond the small black leather couch and wall-mounted plasma, the kitchenette is sleek, with cabinets and appliances in a flat, gunmetal tone.

Licking his lips, Red turns to her with an apologetic smile.

"I'll be right out, Lizzie. Make yourself comfortable."

He tosses his hat on the molded glass coffee table, then crosses the room to a closed door, which must house the bathroom. She used the facilities when they bought coffee.

She turns slowly, examining the space, noting the heavy shutters on the two small, high windows on one wall. Secure and private.

If she's really going to do this, she might as well get undressed. She's been dying to get out of these clothes for hours.


	5. To Bring Her Joy

Red washes his face and dries it thoroughly on the hand towel, his hands shaking slightly with excitement. He needs to get that under control. However far she's willing to go with this experiment, he needs to be ready and willing to stop. He can tell that she's nervous.

But oh, to bring her joy.

When he emerges from the bathroom, all his efforts at calm are immediately made futile by the sight that greets his eyes.

Liz, wearing nothing but her hat and her uniform shirt, unbuttoned, is sitting against a mound of pillows at the head of the bed. The silver coverlet and white sheets are folded back, and the hat is tilted at a jaunty angle over one eye.

"Hey, Sarge," she says, her cheeky white smile broadening as she takes in his evident amazement. "So you said you had something to show me?"

Her body is everything he's secretly imagined, and more. Flawless skin, strong bones, and taut curves, her body visibly tightening as he steps closer, responsive in the ways only an extremely fit young woman can be.

He kneels before her on the bed in his uniform, gives her a firm nod before leaning down on all fours to kiss her tempting mouth.

"Oh, Red." Her eyes go dreamy before she closes them tight, kissing him back as she arches beneath his practiced touch.

Red bends her, strokes her, allows his mouth to wander over her skin at will, his caresses speaking the words he can't bring himself to say.

"Tell me what you want, Lizzie," he urges her at one point, and when she turns her face away slightly, her cheeks flushed, he reaches for the handcuffs on his belt. "Do I need to restrain you for this interrogation?"

His tone is teasing, but she at once reaches one wrist over her head, lays it against the black metal bed frame.

"Just one. So I can still touch you," she tells him, blushing even more furiously.

Up to this point, she has confined her touches to his head and neck, allowing him to remain clothed at his murmured request. She seems to be trying to memorize the texture of his scalp, his close cut hair, his sideburns.

Red hooks her left wrist to the bed frame, the cuffs not too tight. 

Then he gives her a slow, deliberate stare, leaning back and away from her on his knees.

"Tell me what you want, Lizzie," he repeats, before beginning to touch her again, teasing with his tongue and his fingers, causing her to shake and tug against her bound wrist. "This, or do you like this better?"

She doesn't resist him for long. 

He's never heard such delicious noises, and to hear his name in her voice, in that tone of absolute wonder, is almost unbearably erotic.

She's completely limp by the time he uncuffs her, and her face is as lax with bliss as her body.

Red pulls the sheet up over her, then gathers her close, careful not to allow his uniform to scratch her bare skin. He buries his face against her hair, tightly braided to her head, as she snuggles against him, drowsing in and out of sleep, and tries to ignore the familiar ache of self-denial.

Mr. Kaplan could call at any time. Then they'll need to get moving again.


	6. Red

Liz rouses from a brief doze to find Red curled against her, their bodies separated by a sheet wrapped carefully around her. He's still fully clothed, and for a moment she hesitates to wake him. 

But they may not be together much longer. Red has warned her that they will need to split up sometimes, to avoid capture.

"Red?" she whispers, watching his impossibly thick eyelashes flutter as he struggles back up to consciousness. He rolls his eyes sleepily, still clutching at her through the sheet.

"Red, take off your clothes and come to bed."

"Lizzie?" 

She can see him beginning to reach for an excuse, the lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. 

"Red, I want to touch you. Please, it's my turn," she insists, extricating one arm with difficulty and reaching over to stroke his head once again.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't move.

"You'll be much more comfortable," she coaxes.

"Lizzie, that's not necessary ..." he begins, despite a hint of something new in the back of his tired green eyes.

"Red, you said anything," she reminds him, then reaches for the top button of his by now extremely wrinkled blue uniform suit. He freezes as she begins to unbutton it, then sits up abruptly.

For a moment she's afraid he's going to stand and walk away, but instead he just moves to sit on the side of the bed with his back to her and starts stripping off all his clothing. The angle of his head and neck a little stiff, as if he's forcing himself to act.

Liz leans up on one elbow, watching him.

The last item is a thick, white undershirt. Red stops with his arms raised as if to pull it off over his head, then drops his arms and looks back over his shoulder at her. 

There's something terribly hesitant about that gaze, so different from his prior assurance and evident expertise in bed.

Liz pushes the sheet aside and crawls naked across the bed to him, then kisses his shoulders gently through the white cotton fabric, slightly damp with sweat. The tight white shirt smells like his cologne, and she can feel the pattern of his burn scars through it.

His breathing speeds up, but he just sits with his hands on his knees. When she peers over his shoulder down his body, she can see that he's fully aroused, the shirt riding up his belly, but his eyes are closed, his mouth trembling as he bites at his bottom lip.

"Red, I want you. Please come to bed with me," she whispers. "You made me feel so good. Please, just let me hold you."

He turns his face toward her, finally. Hope and disbelief are clearly at war in his expression.

"Just lie down with me now," she begs, lifting the edge of the sheet, and at last, as she backs away, he rolls to lie down on his back, one arm extended, and she curls against him and lets the sheet fall back over them both.

Then she kisses him, trying to remember the things he did to her, the words he whispered. Mirroring those touches and pleas.

She keeps her hands above his waist, touching him over and beneath the shirt until finally he rolls onto his side, pressing against her in silent entreaty, and only then she entangles their legs as she reaches for him at last.

She said she would just hold him, but she lied. She wants him inside her, more than she's ever wanted anyone before. And she's willing to beg. Again and again.

Her words fall like polished stones into the still pool of his desire, the ripples rebounding, passion building in her once again.

Red groans softly into her mouth as he finally obliges her, their kisses so deep and wet it feels like her whole body is opening in response to his touch. The weight of him, the feel of his hands on her body as he moves so slowly, their bodies learning each other's shape and texture.

She's never felt so cherished.

Liz doesn't want this to end, and yet when they finally lie spent in each other's arms, she knows she will remember the sounds he made and the way he clung to her in those last paroxysms of delight until her dying day. 

She doesn't want to sleep, wants to postpone the time when they will dress in their uncomfortable matching uniforms in response to Mr. Kaplan's call, and depart.

But even worse will be the next day, when Red returns to his expensive suits and his colorful Italian ties, and she to her ordinary wardrobe in black and gray knits. When the inevitable distance between them is sure to grow, once again.

He's the concierge of crime, and she's no longer an FBI agent, but just another fugitive. Not really fellow officers, near equals. 

They'll probably split up soon.

At least she will have tonight to remember.


	7. The Next Mission

Red wakes just before dawn to find Liz sleeping with her head on his chest, one hand shoved up the front of his shirt with her fingertips resting on the ragged scar that remains from his recent bullet wound. Their bare legs are wound together, and he closes his eyes for a brief instant, imagining that this is the first of many similar mornings.

Unlikely in the extreme, but given how impossible this night spent together would have seemed to him the previous morning, he can't help but hope for more. She was so tender and accepting of him in every way. 

Liz moves slightly in her sleep, nuzzling his chest through his white shirt, and he lies still, enjoying the warmth of her bare body. 

It appears that he has vastly underestimated the power of a uniform.

Once Liz makes a decision, she sees it through. If only this wasn't just an experiment on her part. His hopeful thoughts carry him onward.

Perhaps, in the next city, on the next mission, they may need to pose as paramedics, or as nurses, or even physicians. Based on last night, he's more than willing to subject himself to any procedure Dr. Lizzie may order. She may even need to strap him down to a gurney.

She probably looks amazing in scrubs.

Pulling Liz a little closer, daydreaming, Red presses kiss after kiss to the top of her head, and wills Mr. Kaplan not to call for at least another hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I decide to continue, I'll start a new story, and mark this as Part 1 of A Series.


End file.
